The Atmosphere Comes to Life
by Crystallic Rain
Summary: Kurt Hummel died once. At least, he almost did. He never found out for sure exactly what happened. He didn't know how they did it, or even why, but they managed it. Torchwood. / Glee/Torchwood AU. Klaine, Brittana, and lots of others.
1. Hot Shot

**the atmosphere comes to life**

**Notes: **Hello all, here's a new WIP. Torchwood/Glee crossover. Enjoy. Leave suggestions? Reviews? Yay, okay, I love you all.

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><p>Kurt Hummel died once.<p>

At least, he almost did. He never found out for sure exactly what happened. He was certain, though, because he was later informed, that he flat-lined for a few aching minutes.

He supposed then, technically speaking, that he did, in fact, die. But they brought him back to life. He didn't know how they did it, or even why, but they managed it. _Torchwood._

He supposed that it started about a year before. He remembered the Cybermen, and he had heard the rumors (because that's all that they ever were) that it had led to some battle in London. He could trace it all back to when these strange things had first started to happen.

It had only been a few months since Kurt had returned to Ohio. He'd graduated high school, and not even a year before had he graduated NYADA. He had lined up his very first job in a show, a minor character in a musical, but a role nonetheless. It would be his first Broadway production.

Then his father had his second heart attack.

Kurt gave up on his dreams, his _life_, to return to the place he so desperately hated and take care of his ailing father. He owed him that, he was all too aware.

His new acting career required a daily routine of forcing himself to convince his father that he was okay, that it didn't matter, that he'd return to New York one day. But he knew that it wasn't, that it did, and that he wouldn't ever get the chance to go back. So he had to learn to cope.

Instead, he found himself working for the local paper. He figured it would suffice if he could find a job writing his opinions on fashion or theatre or anything, really. But even that dream was unattainable. Kurt merely found himself writing half-assed articles and interviews that nobody else would write and nobody would read when they were published.

And he made coffee for the office. That seemed to be the biggest part of his job.

He tried to remind himself that it was still money and he was still getting paid and he would make it through. But some days, that simply wasn't enough.

Kurt first met Santana Lopez when she saved his life.

He had gone to the Lima Bean that morning, which seemed so painfully ordinary, but he later realized was the morning when everything changed. He carefully juggled the two trays of coffee cups and the three paper bags with doughnuts, bagels, and a croissant for himself when a strange creature bolted past him down the sidewalk. He stared after it as he kept walking, certain that that _thing_, whatever it was, was _not_ human.

He didn't redirect his gaze when he automatically stepped off of the sidewalk and into the street, his feet guiding him on his way down his familiar route. That was when he heard the blaring horn, and suddenly he was slammed into the pavement, a woman's arm wrapped around his torso. They lay together in the street, the coffee cups and pastries littering the ground as the truck zoomed past, not stopping for even a moment.

Kurt glanced at the woman beside him, her black hair pulled into a ponytail, clad in dark jeans and a black leather jacket and boots.

"What—?"

"No time for questions, pretty boy," she said plainly, standing and brushing herself off.

"Lopez, come _on_!"

The pair looked up to see another man, wearing a decidedly uninterested expression. The girl, Lopez, made a frustrated grunt and rolled her eyes as the other man ran after the beast that had disappeared just moments before.

"But what was that thing?" Kurt asked her, his voice rushed and breathless.

"Again, not the time for questions," she repeated, and she ran after the man and the creature.

Just like that, she was gone.

Kurt found himself half-wishing, as he dragged himself back to the Lima Bean to reorder the food and drinks that were scattered in the street, that Lopez, whoever she was, had let the truck hit him. At least then he wouldn't be out forty bucks for having the make the repurchase out of pocket and his new Marc Jacobs blazer. _And_ he wouldn't have to go to his shitty job again.

But he was more or less unharmed. He supposed he should be thankful for that.

"Hummel, you're late," his boss drawled fifteen minutes later. "And you look a mess."

"I almost got hit by a truck this morning," Kurt reported, placing the coffees and bags down on the table in the break room.

The other man grunted in response. "I have a story for you."

Kurt didn't bother glancing at him as he took his coffee cup out of the carrier. He could only _imagine_ what it could be.

"Suspicious death, a few streets over from the Lima Bean," the man said.

Kurt raised his eyebrows, staring at the man in disbelief. "I—what?" he stammered. "B-but—_seriously_?"

"Seriously," the other man said in bored tone. "I would usually give it to Israel or Westerton but they're both out on other stories today, and this _needs_ to be done. So this is your chance, Hummel. Don't make me regret this."

Kurt nodded eagerly, picking up his bag again. "Thank you, sir," he said quickly. "I—I promise you, you won't regret it!"

When Kurt got to the scene shortly after, he was mildly surprised to see how crowded the area was with police and other reporters. Quickly Kurt slipped into the crowd, doing his best to catch a glimpse. He quickly spotted a few amateur-looking photographers and slipped them his card, promising them some pay if they got their pictures to the office by noon. This also allowed him to slide past as they disappeared, so he was pressed right up against the police tape.

He could see the mangled body, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. He closed his eyes at the sight and squeezed back out of the crowd, wishing the image weren't completely seared into his brain.

Just then, an SUV pulled up to the scene, a few people climbing out. Kurt watched as they pushed past the crowd. He tilted his head curiously, approaching one of the cops off to the side.

"Excuse me, could you tell me who they are?" he asked.

"Torchwood," she explained to him.

"Torchwood?"

"Special ops," she clarified.

"But it's just a murder, isn't it?" he asked her. "Why do they need—"

"I'm sorry," she quickly interrupted, "I'm not allowed to answer questions, really. But if you wait around just a little longer, I promise my boss'll make his statement. I'm _really_ sorry."

"Totally fine," Kurt quickly assured her with a smile. "Thank you for your help." She nodded and flashed him a vague smile as he turned back to the crowd and waited.

Kurt was fairly certain that his boss was going to murder him. While there was the consolation that nobody else had been given information, he couldn't help but feel a sense of defeat that he wasn't able to obtain any secret facts. Everyone he asked after the statement was given simply informed him that it was "classified" or "not their place to answer". He was feeling rather hopeless as other reporters were clearing out, police officers returning to their cars.

Then, a woman caught his eye. She looked so familiar, and there she was, climbing beneath the police tape and leaving the scene. His heart thudded and he walked after her, keeping a slight distance so that he might not be noticed.

"I'm really getting tired of your shit, Smythe," Lopez said icily to the man that Kurt recognized from the scene earlier.

"_Please_, Santana, you don't like _anyone_," the man said smoothly. "Don't act like I'm _special_."

"Look, you have one more chance, and then you can take your fancy ass back to Paris because I'm sick of it," she spat. "I don't care what Torchwood One had to say about you while you were in London, they're gone now, and as far as I'm concerned, you're worthless scum." She stopped in her tracks and so did Smythe. "You step out of line once more, and I won't hesitate to shoot you."

"Oh I don't doubt that," Smythe responded in his cool tone. "But don't waste your bullets on me, Lopez. We just witnessed a murder at the hands of a Weevil. America hasn't seen Weevils since the 1930s. Granted they're running around more commonly in the streets of Cardiff, but the rift here hasn't been ripped open the same way that it was there." He grinned. "Face it, you need me. I've traveled the world and I know _a lot_ more than you and your simple crew. I don't have the slightest clue of how Puckerman, let alone Brittany, managed to make it past high school. I don't even know how they manage to get themselves dressed in the morning."

The Latina girl drew her gun. "Keep walking," she said vehemently, the gun pointed directly between his eyes. "Get your sorry ass back to the base, or I'll kill you now. I have one more thing to take care of here."

Smythe raised his hands half-heartedly in surrender, still smirking at Santana Lopez. "I'll be off then," he sighed, stalking off.

"I know you're there," Santana said suddenly. Kurt felt his heart stop, even when she didn't turn to look at him. "You've been following us for three blocks. I'm not stupid." She turned around and Kurt pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. She raised her gun again. "I'm trying to give you the benefit of the doubt," she continued. "But I will shoot you if you don't show yourself now." Kurt swallowed tightly, forcing himself to step out from his hiding spot. Santana sighed exasperatedly. "Great, that's what I get for doing a good deed. Save a kid and then he recognizes me as the scene of a crime. Just my fucking luck." She folded her arms. "Well, go on, then. You want to question me about what _I _ know, right?"

Kurt swallowed thickly. "I was sent to find out all that I could—"

"I know how a newspaper works, lady lips," Santana snapped. "But you're the coffee boy, out on your first big story—"

"I'm not a coffee boy—"

"Right, you were just picking up all those treats for your coworkers for fun," she said. Kurt clenched his jaw slightly. She took a few steps forward so that she was painfully close to him, her face inches from his. "But this is more than just the story for you. I _saw_ that look in your eyes earlier. I knew that look, because _I_ was there once. You're lost, you've forgotten your purpose. Stuck in some shit-hole, working some dead-end job. God, you're in fucking _Ohio_, I can't blame you. But then you see that thing—that Weevil. You know that maybe this is your chance. This is when you either find something so amazing that it changes you for the rest of your life, or you die trying." She allowed herself a small smile. "And it's so worth that risk. And I'll tell you what—I'm feeling nice today. I'm willing to help you out. So you put away your stupid notebook, and if you've got a recorder, you turn that off. And I'll tell you what you wanna know. Because I _know_ you won't tell anyone, and if you did, they wouldn't believe you anyway." Kurt stared at her for several moments before shoving the notebook into his back, turning the recorder on his phone off. She smiled at him. "Good boy," she smiled, putting her gun back into its holster.

"The thing that I saw earlier, is that what killed that guy?" Kurt asked her.

She gave a curt nod. "A Weevil," she affirmed.

"And what _is_ a Weevil exactly?" he inquired.

"A creature not of this Earth," she said.

"So... an alien?"

She rolled her eyes slightly. "Yes, an _alien_." She sighed. "Don't pretend you don't know they exist. Every higher-up can try to convince the world that they don't, newspapers can try to tell everyone that it's a hoax, but I can tell you're smart, coffee boy. You know that it's real."

Kurt licked his lips hesitantly. "But where did it come from?" he asked. "That other guy said something about a rift?"

Santana smiled at him. "A rift in time and space," she told him. "They exist in various places through the world. There was one in London, that's how the Doctor imprisoned all the Cybermen and Daleks. He put them into the rift there, and then he closed it for good."

"But the rift here is open still?" Kurt asked. "Why can't we call this doctor to close it?"

"Not a doctor," Santana said. "_The _Doctor. He has a lot more to worry about than Lima, believe me on that."

"The Doctor," Kurt repeated. "Is he an alien, too?"

"Clever," Santana smiled. "I knew I liked you. Relatively speaking, anyway."

"Have you ever met him?"

Santana's face turned a little stony. "No," she told him. "None of us at Torchwood Five have. Sebastian keeps saying he has, but he's a dirty liar. I should have let that fucking Weevil have him, the ungrateful bastard." She let out a bitter laugh. "He says it was _my fault_ it almost got him anyway. Should have just let that Weevil take a bite out of him, would have served him right."

Suddenly, Santana put a finger to her earpiece. She frowned slightly. "Give me ten minutes," she said, then looked back at Kurt. "What's your name, anyway?"

"Kurt Hummel," he told her.

She smiled. "Well, then. It's your lucky day, Kurt Hummel. I'm Santana Lopez, and you're going to get to see Torchwood."

* * *

><p>The building was magnificent. It appeared to be so ordinary from the outside, but the moment he stepped in through the doors, he realized its true beauty. It looked so white and clean, so advanced and just <em>magnificent<em>, "TORCHWOOD" written on the wall in black and silver.

"I half-expected it to be underground," he admitted to Santana. She smiled.

"That would be Torchwood Three," she told him. "We've found that being out in the open actually makes us a little less noticeable."

Kurt nodded. "Makes sense," he admitted. "Especially with the sort of simple people that live in Lima."

Santana smiled at him, pushing open a door. A blond girl looked up at them. "This is Brittany," she said. "She's my best friend. Doesn't get a lot of things in this world, but she's the most brilliant one _here_ in Torchwood. It's like this is what she was meant to do in life. She can track just about anyone or anything, she's highly trained in medical aid, and she's one hell of a shot."

"Hi!" Brittany said cheerily. Kurt extended his hand, but she merely wrapped her arms around him in a hug. "Who are you?"

"Kurt Hummel," he said.

Her eyes widened a little when he spoke. "I like your voice," she said. "And your lips look really soft." She tilted her head slightly. "I want to kiss you, but I'm not your type, am I?"

Kurt cleared his throat. "Uhm, no, not exactly," he admitted.

"That's okay," she said. "Santana's more my type, anyway. Oh." She stopped suddenly. "I wasn't supposed to say that, though."

Kurt smiled slightly as Santana pushed him into the next room. "Nice to meet you, Brittany!" he called back over his shoulder.

"This is Rachel Berry," she said, indicating the small brunette girl. "She's the newest member. She sort of like our liaison. She handles all the outside business for us."

The girl grinned broadly, shaking Kurt's hand before Santana was dragging him to the next room. "Here's Noah Puckerman. You'd best call him Puck. He was in charge here before I was."

The man with a mohawk narrowed his eyes slightly at Kurt, and the two kept walking. "And you've seen Sebastian Smythe. He's here temporarily."

"So keen on getting rid of me," he said smoothly, extending his hand to Kurt. "Pleasure to meet you."

"You too," Kurt said quickly.

"Now, what did you find out for me?" Santana asked.

"Brittany tracked the Weevil," Sebastian told her. "Puckerman's got him on lockdown in the basement."

"Ready to meet a Weevil, Hummel?" Santana asked. Without waiting for a response, she walked on to the elevator and pressed the button. Kurt hurried in behind her. She was silent until they reached the lower level. The doors opened and Kurt followed Santana out.

"This," Santana said, stopping outside a glass enclosure, "is a Weevil." Kurt stared at the creature in disbelief. "This is what killed that man back there. We've been chasing him for a few days now, and we've finally got him."

"So what do you do with him now?" Kurt asked.

"Well, Rachel will be on the phone with the police, assuring them that we've got it all under control," she said. "And then we keep him. It's like our very own little prison. It sort of helps if we have one, so we can learn about it, keep tabs on it... it's better in the long run."

Suddenly, an alarm was blaring, and Kurt jumped. The creature behind the glass recoiled slightly. Kurt glanced to Santana, whose eyes were narrowed.

"Security breech," she told him quickly, drawing out her gun. She ran to the elevator, Kurt close behind her.

"What can I do?" he asked as the doors open. "You can stay here. Don't move an inch, we'll have this taken care of shortly." She paused. "And don't protest."

Kurt frowned slightly as Santana ran down the hallway, Puck quickly leaving his office and following behind her. He sighed, picking up a strange object on one of the tables and looking at it.

"That's a weapon, you know." Kurt jumped at the voice, turning to see Sebastian. "I wouldn't touch it unless you wanted to lose a hand."

The alarms stopped suddenly, and Kurt could hear Santana shouting off in the distance as he placed the weapon back on the table. Sebastian had opened a bag, shoving things inside it. He then picked up a leather strap covered in metal cylinders.

"What are you doing?" Kurt asked.

"Taking these and leaving," Sebastian said simply.

"Shouldn't you be looking into the security breech?"

"I tricked the system," Sebastian sighed. "It was _me._ God, Lopez was wrong, you're really not that bright."

"You can't run," Kurt told him. "And you shouldn't be stealing from this place. They obviously trust you, you can't break that. You're part of their team."

"You really _are_ that stupid," Sebastian said plainly. "You don't know _anything_ about me, about us at Torchwood. You're a complete idiot for thinking you do."

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out that whatever it is you're doing—"

"You don't even get it!" Sebastian said, amazement in his voice. "They're not going to let you live on like this, after seeing what you have. They're going to wipe your memory. Torchwood Three let on about their special recipe for their amnesia pill. Santana and Puck are just waiting to slip it to you. Then you get to go on, back to your completely meaningless life and you'll be none-the-wiser. You'll never know what happened, and if you remember any of it, you'll think it's just a dream."

"You're lying," Kurt said in a low voice. "Trying to scare me because of—"

"Because of what?" Sebastian laughed. "Because you _found me out_? I'm terrified, clearly." He sighed. "You know, you were kind of pretty. Terribly annoying and I really didn't like you, but you were pretty. It's a shame." He pulled his gun out, pointing it at Kurt. "I didn't really want to have to kill you. The amnesia pill would have been _so_ much easier."

Kurt swallowed thickly, backing up against the wall, his knees shaking slightly.

"Smythe, put the fucking gun _down._" Both men glanced up to see Puck, advancing. His hand was poised over his own gun, ready to draw it in a second's notice. "I said _put the gun down!"_ he barked.

"You don't scare me either, Noah," Sebastian sighed. "And neither does Lopez, so she can come out in the open to shoot me."

"You're fucking crazy," Santana spat, revealing herself from behind a small nook in the wall. "You're fucking insane, and I'm going to _definitely _kill you this time, you crazy bastard."

"Such deeply insulting words," Sebastian said in a bored tone. "But you're all wrong. The only person that will be killed is lovely little Hummel, here."

"Don't move, Hummel," Puck instructed.

"Wasn't really planning on it," Kurt murmured, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He eyed the alien weapon that was on the table near him, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He wouldn't even know how to handle it properly if he did manage to grab it. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the end.

God, he just wanted one more chance to say goodbye to his father.

"Really, you're just making it easier on me," Sebastian commented. "I'm the best shot here, and all of you are too cowardly anyway. Waiting for me to make the first move? It's pathetic really."

"You're the pathetic one, Smythe," Santana spat, and the man turned to her. "You're such a sad little boy that you're trying to take us all down with you. You're just fucking yourself over."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Santana."

"I know what you're after—"

Sebastian laughed again. "You don't even know what it _does_."

"Then enlighten me," Santana said in a sarcastically sweet voice, and suddenly Kurt understood. She was buying time. Sebastian would let his guard down and something would fall into place. It had to.

"They're info-stamps," Sebastian explained, holding the leather strap with dozens of the metal items. "Created by the Daleks, they contain information on a huge variety of subjects. Including your precious Doctor. But they're more than that. They're _weapons_. They release an electromagnetic pulse that can kill. It can kill Cybermen, Weevils... or humans."

"You're _sick_," Santana spat.

"And you're all stupid if you think I don't know what you're doing," Sebastian said. "If you don't think I know that Hummel here is convinced he can take me out and save the day." He turned back to Kurt, whose hand was on the foreign gun. Kurt quickly raised his arms, shaking as he pointed the weapon at Sebastian. "Adorable," Sebastian sighed. With that, there was a crack that broke through the air. A gunshot.

Kurt fell backwards, gasping and choking, his hand reaching down to his stomach. He let out a strangled cry as he looked down, seeing his fingers covered in blood, his shirt stained scarlet.

He continued to gasp and move his mouth wordlessly, looking up to see Puck lunging toward Sebastian, but he pressed a button on something that looked a lot like a wristwatch, and he disappeared. Immediately Rachel was beside Kurt, Puck joining her a second later.

"Kurt," Rachel said breathlessly. "Oh god, Kurt, can you hear me? Kurt?"

"He's losing consciousness," Puck said quickly. "We've got to get him to the table..."

Kurt could vaguely feel himself being lifted up by the man as he slipped away.

When he woke up again, he had expected to find Brittany or Rachel by his bedside. Not Santana.

Kurt tried to move slightly, but Santana placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Then, she grabbed him by the elbow and helped him sit up.

"I thought I was dead," Kurt murmured to her.

"You were," she assured him. "But not for too long."

Kurt briefly wanted to ask how how it was, then, that he was still alive and sitting there talking to her, but he thought better of it. "And Sebastian?"

"The sneaky bastard channeled the energy of the rift to make his escape," she said. "We tried to track him, but couldn't manage it. He got off with the info-stamps." She sighed. "So now he'll get to play make-believe a little longer, luring boys to bed because they think he's such a fucking hero, but really he's a good-for-nothing lowlife. He'll dump the guys, or kill them, or just kill whoever gets in his way. Because that's the sort of person he is."

Kurt blinked at her for a few moments. "He said—" He shifted slightly and hissed in pain. "He said you were gonna make me forget everything."

Santana nodded. "That would be the plan," she said.

"Please don't," he pleaded quickly. "God, just—please, don't."

She sighed. "I really hoped that being shot at would make this easier for the both of us," she murmured.

"I can't go on with my life, the way that it was, after seeing all this," he said. "Even if you make me forget, I just... please, don't make me forget. You said you knew what it was like. To live like I was. You can't make me go back to that. Not after all this."

Santana stared at him for a moment. "I won't," she said. "Brittany convinced me that I shouldn't. And that... I should let you stay." Kurt stared at her in disbelief. "But if you fuck up, that's another story, Hummel. You don't get that many chances, especially not when it comes to a job as serious as this." She smiled. "Besides, you're smart. God knows that we need a smart male around here. Puckeman definitely isn't one." She stood up. "You can go back to sleep," she told him. "I promise, we won't drug you while you're unconscious, and you won't wake up to find it was only a dream."

Kurt stared at her. "Santana?" he said as she turned to walk away. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it, pretty boy," she said. "Just don't make me regret it."


	2. Fieldwork

******the atmosphere comes to life**

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><p><strong>[EPISODE TWO: FIELDWORK]<strong>

The first thing that Kurt Hummel did after that day at Torchwood was march into the office of his (soon-to-be) former employer and hand him in resignation papers, smacking them onto his boss's desk.

The man quirked a brow, staring at Kurt. "And what's this?" he asked in a cold tone.

"I quit," Kurt said simply.

His boss scoffed. "You can't quit," he said.

"Yes, I can," Kurt told him. "And I am."

"So I give you your first story and you walk out of here?" he snapped. "You never even came back with it. Someone else payin' you more for it? I could get you in a _lot_ of trouble for that, Hummel."

"No," Kurt said. "I've just had it with this place. So here—" He pulled his notepad out of his bag and tossed it onto the desk as well. "—are your notes. Write your own story. I'm done."

"Well, you won't get any recommendations from me," his boss continued. "You just _disappeared_ yesterday!"

"Actually, it was because I was _shot_," Kurt said plainly, pulling the bottom of his shirt slightly to show him the white bandages, and the other man raised his eyebrows a comical amount. "And frankly, I should have quit long ago. Being broke would have been worth it to not be in this miserable pit."

Kurt turned on his heel and walked out in the proudest manner he could manage with the flesh around his middle still tender from the bullet wound. He waited until he was back in his car to hiss slightly from the pain, putting a little pressure on the area. But he'd live. Santana had assured him of that.

Kurt closed his eyes as he clutched the steering wheel. He wished he could have said so many more things to the man, really forced him to understand just how miserable he was at his job, how miserable it had made him in his life. But it wasn't worth the effort. He sighed, sitting up and grabbing at his bag for the bottle of industrial strength painkillers Rachel had given him, taking a few with his bottle of water and hoping that the pain would start to ebb away. He'd need to be at his best.

He put his keys in the ignition and drove in the direction of his _new_ job.

But he quickly found out that it didn't matter how he was feeling, after all. Rachel greeted him once he came in through the doors, pressing a hot mug of coffee into his hands. He couldn't help but love the feeling, the idea that _that _was no longer _his_ job, that it never would be again. And even then, he knew that it was a different gesture, coming from the tiny brunette girl. It wasn't out of duty, but genuine affection that she felt toward him. He liked that feeling.

But the good mood quickly dissipated as Puck and Santana ran through the front room, past Kurt and Rachel. Santana only stopped at the door for a brief moment.

"Apparently there's a Blowfish reeking havoc near the refinery," she informed them. "Berry, look after Hummel. We'll be back as soon as this is dealt with."

Kurt frowned as the door swung closed behind Santana. Rachel placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"She thinks I need a babysitter," he said bitterly. He let out a small laugh. "Yesterday she had only good things to say about me."

"She didn't mean it that way, it's just because of your injury," Rachel told him, but she frowned a little at the look Kurt gave her, challenging her statement. "Come on," she said, wrapping her arm around his elbow. "Let's sit in the lounge, we can talk. Tell me all about your life before Torchwood."

Kurt smiled faintly at her and nodded, walking with her down the hallway, finally entering a neatly furnished room. It had the same sterile white walls, but there were a few comfortable black chairs surrounding a silver coffee table, and in a strange way, it felt very homey.

"What _did_ you do before here?" Rachel asked him, sipping her coffee. "I mean, few people wake up and know they want to fight aliens. And you _definitely_ don't fit the bill as that type."

"I was on Broadway," Kurt admitted, smiling fondly at the memory. "Well, nearly, anyway. I went to school in New York and graduated and got my first part in a musical when my dad had his second heart attack. I came back here to take care of him, and then got a miserable job at the local paper. It was my first decent story, to cover that death caused by the Weevil. And then I met Santana." He smiled faintly at her. "After that I just can't go back."

Rachel nodded, though she was furrowing her brow. "Why have I not met you before?" she asked him, and he quirked a brow.

"Why would you have?"

"I mean, I know that New York is a big place, but—"

"You lived in New York, too?" Kurt asked curiously.

Rachel nodded quickly. "I moved there straight after high school," she said. "I was studying to be in musical theater, too. Except I—I didn't finish school."

"Why not?" he inquired.

She bit her lip. She closed his eyes, smiling sadly. "I was young and stupid and in love," she said. "This boy named Finn Hudson. We were high school sweethearts from around here." She pulled out a necklace from beneath her shirt, a ring hanging from the chain. "He wanted to marry me."

"What happened?"

"He was killed," she said. "By one Cybermen, a year and a half ago. Killed," she clarified suddenly, "but not deleted. That means that there's still this—this _chance._"

"Rachel..." Kurt said slowly.

"No, I—" She took a deep breath, smiling. "I'm not crazy, I promise. There's this—this thing that Torchwood Three found months back. They called it the resurrection gauntlet. It could bring people back to life." She licked her lips, staring at Kurt with wide eyes. "They've destroyed it, but Torchwood Three mentioned that there might be more out there, and we needed to be careful with what they can do."

"Rachel," Kurt tried again, "if it's something you need to be 'careful with', then it might be the best to move on."

Rachel shook her head. "This is why I joined Torchwood," she said. "To find a way to bring him back. I gave up everything, all my dreams, just to find a way to save him. I'm not ready to live without him, Kurt. I'm not even sure that I want to."

"Rachel?" The two looked up to see Brittany standing in the doorway, looking cautious. "Santana just called and asked if you could lazy right now with the people at the refinery."

Kurt turned to Rachel, who sighed. "'_Lazy_'?" he asked, under his breath.

The corners of Rachel's lips twitched slightly as she almost smiled. "She means _'liaise'_," she said softly. "We generally don't try to correct her, anymore. We know what she means, so it isn't worth it." She turned her attention back to the blond. "I'll go call her, see exactly what she needs," she said. "Thanks, Brittany."

Brittany nodded, smiling as Rachel set her empty coffee mug into the sink, then left the lounge. Brittany then turned her attention to Kurt, grinning broadly and bounding into the room, settling herself across from the young man. "Hi, Kurt!" she said excitedly. "How are you feeling today?"

He smiled wryly. "I've been better," he said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"What were you and Rachel talking about?" she asked.

"Life before Torchwood," he responded. "She and I both shared the same Broadway aspirations, apparently."

"I _love_ Broadway," Brittany said. "I love music."

"Were you involved with music before you started here?" he asked her curiously.

She nodded. "I was a dancer," she said. "I was _really_ good, too." She frowned a little. "I really miss it."

"Why did you stop?"

Brittany leaned down, rolling up her pant leg until it was above her knee, revealing a deep-looking scar. "I was shot at by a Roboform, about three years ago, now," she said. "I knew a little about Torchwood by then because Santana had joined up the year before. She didn't want me to join, though. She didn't think it was safe." She grimaced. "But then this happened, and I wasn't even a member. Santana got really mad about it all. She said... 'What good is trying to protect you from what I see when I haven't been able to keep you safe?'" She sighed. "It wasn't her fault, of course. But I guess after that she decided it was better if I was fighting, so she offered me a job. Puck had just stepped down from being leader and had put her in charge, so she thought that maybe I would be safer if I could be ready."

Kurt smiled softly at her. "She really cares about you."

Brittany beamed at these words. "I like to think she does," she said. "She says she does. But she says it's complicated, too." She sighed. "She really doesn't like being judged and she doesn't like labels. But I love her and we make each other happy, so that's what's important, right?"

"Right," Kurt assured her.

"Besides, she always comes back for me," she continued. "Even when she ends up like you did."

Kurt furrowed his brow slightly. "What do you mean 'when she ends up like I did'?" he asked.

Brittany smiled excitedly. "Santana is _really_ special," she told him. "We grew up together. It was always me, her, and our other friend, Quinn. We'd always play together, and when we got older, we did everything together. Sometimes, we'd get in these completely crazy situations... like... Santana shouldn't have been okay. We joked about it and all that when we were younger. She always said she was invincible. I think that's part of how she ended up here." She paused for a moment. "But... there are times on this job that she should have died. And like you, there are times when she technically did. I asked her how she did it, once, and she told me it was because she had to come back for me." She smiled softly. "I know that's not _how_, but it's still a nice reason. We still joke about it. Puck and Rachel do, too. But I can tell Santana's starting to get a bit scared. She said her luck's going to run out eventually, and she's afraid for when it does." She paused again. "I am, too."

Kurt looked at the blond with concern, taking her hand in his. He smiled at her. "She'll be _fine_," he assured her. "I can tell you from just the little bit I know about her, she's sure as hell not giving up."

Brittany grinned. "That's one of the things I love about her," she said, her cheery manner suddenly returning. "She _never_ gives up. She really doesn't."

Kurt continued to smile at her as they fell into a small silence. Then, a thought crossed his mind, and he frowned slightly. "Brittany?" he asked. "Why did Puck step down as leader?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know a lot about what happened just before I joined. I've asked, but Santana said it's for the best if I don't know, and Puck just snaps every time I ask." She bit her lip for a moment, furrowing her brow in thought. "You should ask Rachel, though. She and Puck are _really_ close."

"Oh?"

Brittany nodded. "Santana didn't want Rachel to be a part of the team," she informed him. "You can tell, just the way she treats her, even after a year and a half. But Puck convinced her. And... well... then Santana said a lot of nasty things about it. She still does."

"Like what?" Kurt pressed on curiously.

"Things like, 'Puckerman only wanted that dwarf here so that he could always have someone warm to fuck'," Brittany said with a sigh.

Kurt raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he said lamely. "Are he and Rachel... _involved_?"

Brittany shrugged a little. "I've found them on the camera feed making out a few times—well, a lot of times—but I don't they're serious about each other," she explained. "Rachel loves Finn, and Puck doesn't talk about personal things."

A loud _buzz_ rang out through the building, and Brittany's face lit up. "She and Puck are back," she explained quickly. She got to her feet and Kurt followed her quickly into the main work area, just in time for the other pair to trudge in, neither looking very happy.

"We're going to need to call in Mike," Santana sighed to Brittany, her tone clipped. "The blowfish didn't make it out alive. Things escalated to a hostage situation, and Puckerman ended up shooting him."

Puck narrowed his eyes. "It isn't my fault," he spat. "If I hadn't have shot—"

"I'm not blaming you for shit, Puckerman," Santana snapped in response. "I was _there_, I know what had to be done, so cool down and shut up." Kurt raised his eyebrows a little, but kept his mouth shut. Santana turned back to Brittany. "Get Mike on the phone, see when he can come in to take a look at the body before we put him in the morgue." She sighed as Brittany went back into the front office where her desk was, the buzz sounding through the building again. "God, I wish he hadn't quit. It'd be so much easier with a doctor on staff full-time."

"UNIT said they'd be willing to send one our way if we need it," Rachel reminded her from her workstation.

"Yeah, and look what our last UNIT-sent employee got us," she snapped.

"Just because Sebastian was terrible doesn't mean that anyone UNIT sends—"

"Besides," Santana cut in. "We have five employees again. And between you and Brittany, we have first aid covered just fine. Anything more serious, dead bodies—we just need to call in Mike. He was the one who made the offer."

Rachel sighed. "But you just _said_—"

"I said," Santana ground out, "that it would be _easier_. Nothing more."

Rachel snapped her mouth shut, turning on her heel and walking out of the room. Puck sighed frustratedly.

"For fuck's sake, Santana," he bit out tiredly. "Every day. Can't you just leave her alone? She was trying to offer some help." Santana narrowed her eyes at the man, but he didn't back down. "I'm going to get the body. You should try figuring out what's got your panties in a twist and fixing it."

Santana let out a small growl of frustration, pressing her fingers to her temples. She took a deep breath, not opening her eyes as she sank into the chair at her desk.

"Look, Hummel," she called out to the young man, and he looked at her expectantly. "Get me a coffee, would you? Black."

His heart sank at the request. "Right away," he mumbled, turning and going back into the lounge. The frustration bubbled inside him as he warmed the coffee, then poured it into a mug. Here he was, so convinced that things were changing. Yet he had merely ended up back in square one. He took a deep breath, screwing his eyes up to the ceiling as he chose his words carefully, preparing himself for what he'd say to Santana.

Because, honestly, he was _not_ going to stand by and let this happen all over again.

He set the coffee down on her desk a little more forcefully than necessary. She glanced up at him reproachfully.

"Santana," he said. "Can I ask you a question?" She gave him an expression that clearly said _no_ as she picked up her coffee and took a sip, but he plowed on anyway. "Is this why you hired me? To make your coffee? Because I'm telling you right now that I'm not going to stand for it. I expected a hell of a lot more from working here. If I wanted to make coffee, I would have stayed at the paper, or gotten a job at the Lima Bean."

"You think I hired you to be coffee boy again," she said shortly, an eyebrow arched. She shook her head, setting down her coffee. "Don't be stupid, Hummel."

"But—"

Santana pushed herself up from her desk. Even though she was shorter than Kurt, he still felt mildly intimidated by her. Still, he held his ground. "I hired you to be in the field, Hummel. Just like the rest of us. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"If that's why you hired me," he pressed on heatedly, "then why did you leave me here while you and Puck ran off, telling Rachel to look after me like I need a _babysitter_?"

"Jesus Christ, Hummel," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "You clearly need to look at this from my point of view. Yesterday," she said in a patronizingly slow tone, "you got _shot_. Moments before this, you picked up an alien weapon to try to fight off your attacker. I'm guessing that you've never even held any sort of gun from our planet. Am I right?" Kurt frowned slightly. "You've never held a gun, never used one. And did you even notice that I didn't even take Brittany out there? We only _needed_ two people. Two people who can shoot, two people who aren't recovering from gunshot wounds."

"I'm sorry," Kurt muttered.

Santana shrugged, then folded her arms against her chest. "I could have stuck back for a minute to fill you in," she admitted. She sighed. "How are you, Hummel?" she asked him.

He shrugged half-heartedly. "Fine," he told her.

"Feeling sore?"

"Yeah."

She nodded understandingly. "We're going to start training you in a day or two, provided that you're feeling better," she said. "I can get you some better painkillers than whatever the midget gave you, but you might not really be in the right mindset, and you've gotta be on the ball when you've got a gun, even if it's just on the practice range."

Kurt nodded. "Of course," he said. "I think I'm fine with what I have right now. I've managed to hide it from my dad, and that isn't an easy feat..."

Santana raised an eyebrow. "You still live with your dad?"

"I moved back with him," Kurt said stiffly. "He had a heart attack, and I needed to take care of him."

Santana stared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly. "Well, just because we can't get you trained doesn't mean we can't do anything," she said. "Rachel can get all of your information, get you completely in the computer system, and Brittany can get you an earpiece. We're going to need to take a blood sample, too—that's policy. We have blood samples of all current team members." She offered him a small smile. "I'm looking forward to having on on the team, Hummel. I didn't mean for you to think otherwise."

* * *

><p>"You're not a bad shot, Hummel."<p>

Kurt watched as Puck examined the cutouts specially created for target practice. It was his second day of training, having been down in the shooting range with Santana the day before. The woman had taught him the basics, and he'd quickly picked up on them.

Overall, things were easy enough to adapt to. He rather enjoyed getting finger-print access to the base, being able to press his thumb up against the scanner, which then revealed the rest of the building behind the positively normal-looking office space up front. The earpieces were fantastic, allowing communication with the others, but merely looking like a handsfree piece for the phone instead of anything more telling.

And now, he was quickly getting the hang of using a gun. Of course, the reality of it struck him on occasion, realizing that he was _using a gun_, only months after he'd been an aspiring Broadway star. Honestly, he found it a little funny at times. Just because—really? _Him_? With a _gun_? It was a little comical, if he told the truth.

He did it his best to think of it more like _that_ then the fact that he was holding a _weapon_ in his hand, and one day, probably soon, he might have to use it.

"It's cliché, of course," Santana had told him, "but there's always the hope that you won't have to use it. I hope you don't. But you will. That's just the way it goes. And you'll probably need to use it before you're honestly ready. And that's the worst part."

Kurt had swallowed thickly at this, and found his hands shaking slightly. And that was when he'd stopped thinking and feeling and just _did_.

"Whatever you're doing," Puck continued, breaking Kurt from his thoughts, "keep doing it. You're way better than Rachel was when she started." He paused for a moment. "Hell, maybe even better than Brittany. And that's saying something."

Kurt nodded, vaguely registering Puck's words. The older man came back to where Kurt was standing. He raised an eyebrow. "You all right, Hummel?"

"Yeah," Kurt responded, taking in a deep breath. He grimaced. "I think the painkillers are waring off," he admitted. "I'm starting to get that sharp pain in my side." He winced slightly, placing his hand on the area of the wound in an attempt to apply a soothing pressure.

"Take a break," Puck told him. "Don't want you passing out or anything. I'll see if Rachel can bring down a shot for you—works faster and better than those pills she gave you."

Kurt nodded absently again, taking a seat on the bench in the room.

"First time you've been shot, right?" Puck asked, sitting beside him. "It's that first time that hurts like _hell_."

"How many times have you been shot?" Kurt inquired. "You make it sound like it's become a daily occurrence."

Puck chuckled. "Hardly," he said. "But I've been here... almost eleven years, now. Joined up when I'd just turned eighteen. I can fairly say that I've been shot a fair number of times. And the stomach _really_ sucks. Just all that flesh there, you know? And in inch either way and you could be hitting a vital organ." He sighed, leaning back against the wall and folding his arms against his chest. "Around the joints are shit, too. Then you can't move or you'll tear it all open again, and _that_ is fucking torture when you do. We had to be real careful with Brittany when she was shot at, and that wasn't a bullet, so it was trickier. And even after all of that, she'll never be able to dance again. Not like she used to." He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"If it wasn't this, it would have been something else," Kurt told him softly, and Puck turned to him, an eyebrow raised. Kurt shrugged slightly. "The way you said it, it sounds like you blame yourself," he said. "But I was working up on Broadway before I moved back here. Performers are always injured. All it takes is one tiny misstep of you or someone else, and then it just takes one small injury. If you're not careful, you end up ruined for life. It's terrible to admit, but it's likely it would have happened to her eventually." He smiled slightly. "Besides, she said she wasn't even a member yet when she got hurt."

"The two of you have been talking, then?"

"A little bit," Kurt allowed.

"What else has she told you?"

"Very little about you, if that's your concern," Kurt told him. "She said you're a more private person."

"Hm."

"She said if anything, I should ask Rachel about you."

Puck scoffed slightly at this. "Don't waste your time," he said. "She doesn't know much, either."

"Why all the secrets?" Kurt asked softly.

Puck didn't look at him, staring up at the ceiling, as though trying to burn holes in it. At last, he pushed himself up from the bench. "I'm going to send Rachel down with something to help with that pain," he told him. "Sit tight. After it gets working, you can try another round and I'll compare the numbers."

He left the room, and Kurt sighed. He grimaced slightly at the idea that Puck might think he was being nosy; he wasn't, he really wasn't. He was merely curious, after being thrown into such a strange situation in a strange environment. He couldn't help but be interested in the stories of his new coworkers.

He smiled a little at the thought of it being a different type of fieldwork.

Still, Puck's aversion to his words...

He quickly shook off the feeling. The older man hadn't sounded the least bit angry during their conversation. After eleven years, Kurt was sure that Puck was used to the questions, anyway.

And needless to say, Kurt was more than a little curious about everything that Torchwood had hidden within its walls, and even more what was _actually_ on the outside of them, now that he had an inkling.


End file.
